


Baby Was the Devil

by overratedantihero



Series: Baby Was the Devil [1]
Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Hellblazer, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Bondage (the demon pact kind), But it's an incubus, Demon Pact, Dick as an Incubus, M/M, Summoning, Vague Occult Things, dubcon, i guess, soul bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-29 14:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15731274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Constantine pays for Deathstroke the Terminator's services a little unconventionally- with a pact with a demon. It's not his fault the demon turns out to be a pouty incubus.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love incubus/succubus shit. This is self indulgence to the highest degree. There will be multiple chapters. I am sorry.

Slade accepted two forms of payment: USD and favors, the latter rarely. The contract would have to be particularly compelling, and the client particularly interesting for Slade to accept a favor over the much more liquid promise of American cash.

John Constantine was that sort of client.

But Slade wasn’t unfamiliar with Constantine and he had little patience for glorified con artists. The blood of the mark (an amateur occultist, running amok and bringing forth too many of Constantine’s friends from down under for Constantine’s preference or safety) hadn’t even dried before Slade turned to Constantine, lifting his sword so that the tip pressed into the skin of Constantine’s throat. Constantine’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“None of that now, mate. We’re friendly here,” Constantine cooed, holding his hands up, palms out.

“I’d like to cash in that favor,” Slade growled. “Now.”

“Now, now. Lower your stick, before this all goes to pot, and we can get started on that favor, yeah?”

Slade moved the sword, dragging the broad side of the blade across Constantine’s trenchcoated waist to wipe away the remaining blood before sheathing it.

“Brilliant,” Constantine muttered, pulling a dark blue pouch, bulging and tied tight, from his coat. “Alright, mate, I have a summoning spell, swiped from that gutted bloke over there. The ingredients are packed tight, all I’d need to do is cast a circle, say a little Latin, and you’ll have yourself a demon. Tied and bound to you and you alone. A devilish assist to your devilish work. Satisfactory?”

Slade considered the pouch and then Constantine. The task had been quick and cheap, even if the spell didn’t yield, Slade wasn’t at a terrible loss. And if the spell backfired on Slade, he would leave Constantine’s dismembered body in San Francisco for Zatanna Zatara to find. He told Constantine as such, and Constantine winced.

“Leave Zee be, you’ve already got my bollocks in a vice without bringing her into this. The circle will prevent any unintentional shenanigans, we just need somewhere quiet and private, preferably an abandoned warehouse or a private wine cellar.”

“Or this. This will work too,” Constantine conceded, when Slade pulled up to the abandoned fairground. A tattered Big Top slouched, unattended to in decades. The two had to step through brush that licked up to their knees, but once they entered the tent, the space proved to be stable, quiet, and broad. Well suited to their unholy purpose.

Constantine dropped the bag he’d insisted Slade allow him to retrieve before their arrival onto the grass and pulled out a can of white spray paint. “Step back, then. Let me work,” he chided. Slade obliged, retreating several paces before planting himself, arms crossed.

Even Slade had to admit that watching Constantine work was intriguing. Constantine sprayed a circle into the dirt and sparse grass, filling it with a pentagram and lining the pentagram with symbols that Slade didn’t recognize as anything other than occult gibberish. As he painted the symbols, Constantine murmured Latin incantations with a furrowed brow. When finished, he tossed the spray can aside and pulled out the pouch lifted from the dead occultist. He pulled the string from the pouch and laid the pouch, open and contents exposed, in the middle of the circle. Then, he left the circle and lifted a sizeable, ornate, rather blunt knife from his bag.

“Come into the circle, will you? I need some of your blood to bind you to the beastie.”

Slade hesitated, and Constantine rolled his eyes. “It’ll only take a minute and then we’ll both be out of the circle well before the demon rents it. Don’t act shy now, I just watched you gut a man.”

Slade unclasped one of his gloves and strode over, entering the circle and offering his wrist up. Constantine followed him in, and lifted the blade, “Shite knife, sublime athame,” Constantine cheerfully offered before driving the point into Slade’s wrist. It took that much force just to pierce Slade’s skin deep enough to bleed, and Constantine removed the knife as soon as blood began to well.

“Alright, drip it over the offerings there. That’s it,” Constantine murmured, gently guiding Slade’s wrist over the contents of the pouch. Slade let him, if only to scrutinize the debris laid out.

“Is that cereal?” Slade asked, gruffly.

“Ah, yes. The sugary kind,” Constantine murmured, glancing down. “Every demon has their kicks. Special lot, like snowflakes. Bloody rude snowflakes, who hold grudges.”

Aside from cereal, there was a single bird feather, a worn paperback, and assorted herbs and spices. Slade considered breaking Constantine’s neck.

“ _Robin Hood_?” Slade asked, as his blood dripped onto the feather. Constantine lit a cigarette procured from his coat.

“The spell’s very specific,” Constantine offered. “These are offerings to a particular demon, one the occultist must have researched. It may not be the book itself, but something about the book that the demon appreciates. Same with the cereal. Demons are creatures of id, they want. So much of them is want, it isn’t hard to find what makes them tick. You’ll see. And that’s enough, best leave the circle.”

Slade put his glove back on without bandaging the wound and stepped out just as Constantine back peddled away as well.

After a few more incantations, Constantine flicked his cigarette into the circle and the whole thing immediately erupted into blue flames. Slade grunted and Constantine grinned. 

“Well, let’s see what that slimy bloke picked out for you, eh?” Constantine said as the flames began to wane. As the flames dissipated, a hunched figure took shape amid silky, climbing smoke. Then, before the figure was fully revealed, a gust of wind shook the tent so violently that Constantine cursed, and Slade drew his sword.

By the time the wind died down, it had carried away the last of the smoke. And in the circle lounged a raven haired, long legged creature with massive wings so black that they shone blue. Its naked skin was bronze and olive with symbols, same as those in the circle, etched onto the skin of its arms in black and blue ink. An ethereal, shimmering ring of blue circled the creature’s neck. The creature’s eyes fluttered open, revealing cobalt eyes that were all iris, no pupil, no whites.

Constantine whistled, and the creature stretched, reaching high and rolling its shoulders. It let out a pleased sigh at the resulting _crack_. It looked to Slade, frowned, and then turned its attention to Constantine. Constantine locked eyes with the creature, and the creature smiled. With the grace of a cat and the smoothness of a stream, the creature poured itself into a crouch, wings extended just enough to reveal the arch to his back. Slade had an inkling that the creature couldn’t extend his wings any further, they were brushing against the boundary of the circle as it was.

“Let me out?” the creature crooned to Constantine, eyes taking on a shine. “It’s so cramped in here, and you’re so far away. Please?”

Constantine blinked, eyes hazy. Slade prepared to grab him, but then Constantine threw his head back and laughed. The creature made a disgruntled noise and sat back on its haunches, closing its wings tight.

“Well, you don’t have to _laugh_ ,” it muttered grumpily, crossing its arms.

“I’m sorry, but, love, did you really expect that to work?” Constantine asked, wiping under his eyes and smirking. “I’ve got you locked so tight you can’t sneeze without those etchings boiling whatever it is you have that passes for blood.”

“Constantine,” Slade barked. Constantine looked over at him as if just now noticing him.

“Oh, right, of course,” Constantine murmured. To the creature he said, “This here is Deathstroke the Terminator. That ring around your neck? It means you’re his now. Until death do you part, and all. You’re paying my way out of a sticky situation, mate.”

The creature narrowed its eyes. “I ate my last master,” it murmured. “But you knew that, didn’t you, John Constantine?”

“You know it?” Slade growled, lurching towards Constantine. Constantine stumbled back, lifting his palms again.

“We’re not well acquainted, no. I know of him. And of his kind.”

Slade grabbed the collar of Constantine’s shirt, lifted him so that their eyes were level. Once again, wind picked up in the tent, tossing Constantine’s hair as the creature leaned forward in interest.

“Elaborate,” Slade ground out. Constantine glanced towards the creature, who smirked.

“This here’s Dick,” Constantine explained. “He’s a lilitu.  A wind and sex demon if you will. Feeds off the libido of humans until he essentially shags them to death. Eats babies sometimes. Tastes change depending on the weather and all.”

“I haven’t eaten a baby since I ate the first born of a corrupt Sumerian king,” Dick retorted. The sudden wind ceased, and Slade shook Constantine.

“Is he doing that? He’s bound, how is he doing that?” Slade demanded.

“ _Christ_ , take it easy,” Constantine muttered. “His power’s limited, I can’t erase it. Rest assured, he’s bound to you. The symbols on his skin, they keep him on the mortal plane. That band around his neck? That’s your blood, mate. He cannot harm you, he cannot defy you.”

“You’re paraphrasing, John,” Dick sing-songed. “Tell him the truth.”

Constantine winced. “He can harm you, but only if you grant him the ability to do so. Say, if you give him permission to feed from you. Give him an inch, he can swipe a mile.”

Slade grunted and released Constantine, who dropped to the ground with the grace of a drunk. He picked himself up from the ground, dusted the dirt from his ass.

“Let a bloke finish, would you?” Constantine muttered. “I can add an extra charm to this whole affair, an extra layer of protection, if you will. Mark you both so that you can put a cap on his powers. Parental controls, if you will.”

Dick hissed and scrambled as far away from them as he could given the confines of the circle. Slade considered John for a moment.

“That’s fine. Do what you will,” Slade finally said, comforted by Dick’s discomfort.

“Just—help me hold him down, will you?” Constantine asked, once again drawing the ceremonial dagger.

When all was said and done, Dick sported a new etching—a scar across his chest, in the shape of a bird. As crude as the blunt dagger appeared to be, it cut into Dick’s skin beautifully, and Slade made a note to find something like it just in case he needed one for his new pet.

Slade’s own mark was much simpler, his skin tougher against the blade. It was the same symbol as that on Dick’s chest, except much smaller, on Slade’s left peck. “What is this?” Slade asked, gesturing to the symbol and picking up his armor to redress.

“His, ah, coat of arms, if you will,” Constantine said. “Hell is quite structured, there are families and dukedoms. Its his crest.”

Dick trembled, curled up into a ball in his circle. Slade initially chalked it up to a weak pain tolerance, but then Dick’s scar glowed, the same blue as his collar, and Slade felt a rush as his own glowed in tandem. Wind picked up around them, and Slade felt it, in his chest. A cord, vibrating with energy. He frowned slit the cord with the same focus it took to adjust a rifle scope. The air ceased, and Dick let out a frustrated grunt.

“I’m going to leave,” Constantine said slowly, packing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “To release him, break the circle.”

“Gone so quickly?” Dick murmured. “And here I wanted to bond.”

Constantine winked at Dick. “Maybe next time, love. I’ve had your kind before, truly, you’re masters of the craft. You’re also worse than a black widow. Cheers.” With that, John disappeared.

Slade looked to Dick, who had uncurled and was watching him. Dick continued to watch him, as Slade strode closer, and even as Slade scrubbed away a portion of the circle with his boot. Dick did not move.

“Well?” Slade asked. Dick blinked.

“What does it matter. I’m bound nonetheless,” Dick spat. Slade crossed his arms and felt for that cord again, pulled just enough that he could feel the rush of power. Dick could too, his eyes closed, and he sighed as wind ruffled his hair.

“I am not unkind,” Slade offered. “Behave, and I will give you what you need. This arrangement can be mutually beneficial.”

“On your terms,” Dick shot back.

Slade nodded. “On my terms.”

“And if I don’t behave?” Dick pushed.

“Then I will keep you locked away in a cellar. No wind. No touch. You will languish alone, for as long as I live and our bond persists.”

Dick’s shoulders sagged, his wings splayed wide and limp. Slade knelt down, cupped Dick’s face, forcing him to look up. Constantine had said that demons were creatures ruled by id and want. This one clearly wanted for touch, for air. Slade could provide both. Slade would show that he could provide both.

Dick blinked up at Slade, eyebrows furrowed. Slade tugged at that cord again, let Dick’s power flow.

“You have my permission,” Slade murmured. Dick’s eyes widened and then he launched himself on top of Slade, ripping away Slade’s mask and kissing him deeply. Slade fell onto his back with the weight of Dick and nearly immediately felt the haze, slick as morphine, as Dick fed. Slade also felt the euphoria, the satisfaction that Dick experienced. It was consuming, overwhelming, both sensations entangled until Slade couldn’t distinguish which was his and which was Dick’s. In that moment, Slade was willing to give Dick anything he asked, would have slit his own wrists if Dick willed it.

And then Slade, forcefully and painfully, slit the cord. Dick jerked back, but not far.

The two panted into each other’s mouths for a moment as they caught their breath.

“You,” Dick murmured, eyes wide. “You’re _human_. You did that while….” Dick pressed his forehead against Slade’s, a grin spreading. Slade was absently running a gloved hand up and down Dick’s spine without even realizing. Idly, he wondered if, during the kiss, Dick felt Slade’s desire in the same way that Slade felt Dick. If Dick was, for even just a moment affected by his own allure. If this were a more compelling method of control than any threat.

“You’ll need clothes,” Slade murmured, letting his head fall back onto the ground. “Sunglasses, while we’re in public. I’ll have Wintergreen scrounge something together.”

Dick settled down on top of Slade, wings spready to their full length, adding to the weight curled on Slade’s chest. “Whatever you wish,” Dick murmured. “It’s not as if I have a choice in the matter.” Despite Dick’s bratty commentary, he was clearly content wrapped around Slade, and Slade had an inkling that this little demon had an affinity for authority, for power.

That was fine. Slade had no doubt he could satisfy his new pet.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m bored. This is boring,” Dick announced, not for the first time. His long arms hung down Slade’s chest, his chin on Slade’s shoulder, while Slade sat at his desk and sorted through potential contracts on his tablet. Slade had tried to shrug him off earlier, but physical contact grounded Dick. Literally. Slade had lost a ceiling fan to Dick’s boredom, and if limited mobility was the price, Slade would pay it to salvage the rest of this safehouse.

“Work will alleviate your boredom, and I’m deciding our next mark. Behave, or I’ll make you,” Slade murmured, idly. He adjusted his reading glasses. There was a particularly intriguing contract, but it involved Gotham and Gotham involved vigilantes. Then again, Slade did have a new pet to slick his dealings.

“ _Oh_ , is that a threat or a promise,” Dick purred in Slade’s ear.

Slade removed his reading glasses and sighed. “Are you finished?”

Dick slid to the ground in a pathetic puddle next to Slade’s chair. Slade glanced down at him and Dick blinked up, eyes wide and innocent if still disturbing. “You haven’t let me feed in _days_ , I’m languishing. Why keep me to starve me?”

It had been about a week since the fairgrounds, since Slade had lent Dick a taste. But Dick was a demon, and a dramatic, childish one at that. Childish and moldable. Before Slade was through with him, he’d have a soldier yet.

“You’re asking for a meal? After telling me you ate your last master?” Slade asked, glancing back at his tablet to go over the specifics of the offer again. “Your negotiation skills are shit, kid.”

Dick hummed and tucked his wings in close for a hand stand. “I let him orgasm first. And he was a bad man, Slade. Irredeemable.”

“And I’m not?” Slade snorted. “You know what I do. You know what I’ll have you do too.” Slade tapped at the tablet. This was not the first time they’d had this conversation. Dick was surprisingly interested in ethics for a sex demon from the second circle of hell.

Dick lowered himself to the ground and rolled into a sitting position. “No. I don’t think you are irredeemable.” He sounded so earnest, but then again, he was a hell beast. Slade took Dick’s moral entanglements with a grain of salt.

Slade stood, pushing back from the chair and standing. He strode to the closet, began pulling out pieces of his uniform, snagging the go-bag from a shelf. “Suit up, pretty bird. We’ve accepted a contract.”

Dick curled his lip. “You’re not actually going to make me wear it, are you?” Dick pleaded. “I like the way I’m dressed.”

“You’re not dressed at all,” Slade pointed out, tossing a bag at Dick. Dick caught it, with a frown.

“Yeah, that’s my point. What do you expect me to do with these?” Dick partially extended a wing for emphasis. Slade rolled his eyes.

“Figure it out. Do you expect me to believe that you keep those around during sex?”

Dick smirked, “Wanna find out?”

Slade threw a uniform at Dick’s head.

As it turned out, the wings sunk into Dick’s back beautifully. The tattoos, collar, and eyes were fixed, but Slade compensated by dressing him in a full suit with a partial cowl that obscured his neck and face while keeping his shock of raven hair exposed. Out of respect for the creature, Slade kept Dick’s crest on the front and back of the costume but made it red rather than blue. Red blended into the shadows better, it took blood better too.  

“These lenses are going to affect my ability to feed,” Dick griped from where they perched beside a gargoyle.  Dick was climbing it, and Slade was willing the statue to crumble, if only to prove his point about Dick sitting still during a job. “The gloves too.” Dick settled on the back of the gargoyle, perched terribly precariously. The wind ruffled his hair and Dick sighed happily.

“Both are removable. We’ll adapt as necessary,” Slade murmured, watching the street through binoculars, and occasionally glancing about the roofs as well. “Consider this our trial run.”

Dick stiffened. Slade didn’t spare him a glance. “Speak up, kid,” Slade murmured, just below a whisper.

“There’s a man approaching our 6, smells like leather and gunpowder,” Dick murmured, still staring forward. Slade grunted. Dick crinkled his nose. “Smells a little like death too.”

Slade cursed, but didn’t move. “Dick, take care of it. I give you permission.” Slade tugged at that cord between them and felt the rush of Dick’s excitement and anticipation. And then he heard an electronically modified grunt followed by the thud of a body against the roof.

“What the fuck, Deathstroke!” Red Hood cried out. Slade didn’t move. He braced himself for the overwhelming bolt of sensation that meant Dick was feeding, but there was nothing. And then—

“I told you!” Dick cried out. Slade glanced back, in time to watch while Dick yanked back his cowl, solid blue eyes burning. Underneath Dick, Red Hood’s expression was obscured by his helmet, but he’d begun scrambling for purchase on the ground, as if he could sit up with Dick latched onto him. Slade had tried that once. It ended with a brief but memorable concussion.

Cowl aside, Dick turned his attention to Red Hood. He grunted unhappily at the helmet, but nevertheless gripped the chin of it and shoved Red Hood’s head back, revealing his clothed throat. Dick let out a growl of frustration that was cut off when Red Hood grabbed Dick’s wrist, yanking Dick’s arm away… and calling attention to the stretch of exposed skin between Red Hood’s glove and his sleeve.

Slade spotted the mark. He didn’t have time to spare Dick an assist. “Can you handle it?” He snapped, even as he lined up the scope on his rifle.

“Of course,” Dick huffed. “Not ideal, but—” Dick darted forward and sunk his teeth into Red Hood’s forearm. As soon as his lips touched Red Hood’s skin, Slade felt Dick’s power writhe. He didn’t need to glance back; he heard the _thunk_ of Red Hood’s helmet as his head fell back.

“That’s right,” Dick cooed. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be taken care of?” Dick kissed up Red Hood’s arm, until his nose brushed cloth. “Can't do much with that helmet on. Take it off? For me?” Dick lifted his head, looking into the lenses of the helmet. Even if he couldn’t see Red Hood’s eyes, Red Hood could see his. Almost sluggishly, Red Hood lifted his free hand to undo some hidden mechanism on the helmet. It opened and separated from his face with a _hsss_.

Dick pushed the helmet off entirely and then kissed Red Hood. Slade felt it. He felt Dick’s satiation, he felt the taste of Red Hood’s insecurities laid bare for Dick to sift through and use.

Slade took his shot, the silencer only doing so much to manage the _crack_. Still, the mark collapsed on the side walk and Slade pulled away from his rifle. This was not how he preferred to kill, but Gotham presented complications. And it was all Slade could do to focus on packing away his accessories as Dick continued to take from Red Hood.

When Slade finally turned his attention to Dick, it was to hoarsely demand, “Stop.”

Dick fisted Red Hood’s hair tighter, ground himself closer against the pliant body beneath him. Red Hood retained his domino mask, but it was ever so slightly askew, and his neck was exposed and already peppered with reddening marks. His skin was also ashen, even for a bat.

Dick pulled away from the kiss. He pulled away, even though Red Hood frowned and stretched his neck, trying to chase Dick’s lips.

Eyes bright and cheeks flushed, Dick licked his bitten lips. “I’m not finished, Slade,” Dick murmured, keeping Red Hood down by his grip in Red Hood’s hair.

“Yeah, Old Man, he’s not done,” Red Hood snapped at Slade. Dick grinned, and Slade closed his eye, to center himself. Slade opened his eye again, decision made.

“Ask him where the others are.”

Dick frowned at Slade, but it melted into a 1,000watt grin when he looked down at Red Hood. Dick released Red Hood’s hair to cup his face. “Hey, there,” Dick cooed. “You still with me?”

Red Hood nodded, a dopey grin sliding on his face.

“Good,” Dick cooed, pecking his forehead. “Can you do something for me?”

Red Hood immediately nodded, reaching up and tangling his own fingers in Dick’s hair. “’Course. What is it?”

Dick leaned in close, as if to kiss him again, but paused, just as their lips brushed. “Where are the others?” Dick asked, sugary sweet.

Red Hood paused, and for a moment Slade didn’t think anything would come of Dick’s interrogation, but then Red Hood’s jaw practically went slack.

“Oracle is in the Clocktower, along with Huntress and Black Canary. Batman is in Robinson Park with Robin and Red Robin is at the docks. Bluebird stayed home, so did Signal. He’s got day shift. Orphan and Batwoman are out of town, but Spoiler is occasionally going out in Orphan’s costume so that we don’t look short staffed.” Red Hood grinned at Dick. “Hi, my name’s Jason, do you want to meet my dad? He’s the worst.”

Dick laughed, a pretty, melodic sound. “Okay, Slade. I think this is all you’re going to get from him. Is it enough?”

Slade blinked. He was familiar with Jason. Out of all the Bat’s children, he’d least expected Jason to cave to Dick’s wiles so easily. All it took was a little skin to skin contact and Jason melted underneath Dick. The sheer potential of all that power was dizzying, or perhaps that was the cord that still hummed between himself and Dick like an electrical current. Slade slit the cord and Dick gasped, sagging against Jason.

That was a risk, but a calculated risk. Slade needed to see if Dick’s glamor lasted, how shallow his hold was. Sure enough, Jason steadied Dick, going so far as to pull Dick into his chest.

“Hey, none of that,” Jason murmured. “C… C’mon. I can take you to B. He’ll—he’ll help. He’ll know what to do. What to… what?” Jason voice was becoming distant, the fog was dissipating but he appeared slow on the uptake.

Slade _tsked_. “Come along, Dick. Say goodbye to your new friend before you create a mess.”

Dick shot Slade a glare, but nevertheless took to his feet. He caught the bag that Slade tossed at him and glanced down at Jason, who was staring at his helmet as if it were going to grow a face.

“Bye, Jason. Thanks for the snack.” Dick pulled his cowl back over his head and then scrambled to follow Slade in his mad dash across the roofs.

Later, once they were crashed at the safehouse just outside city limits, Dick turned on Slade. “What did you mean ‘make a mess?’ Do you think I can’t control myself?”

Slade calmly undressed, crawling under the cheap sheets. The scar on his chest looked like just that—a scar. None of the ethereal glow of before. “I could feel you getting attached, Dick. Our entanglements are strictly professional, as soon as they cease to be professional, then I have to kill them. Do you understand?”

Dick recoiled, scandalized. “The anonymous people you kill are marks. The people I feed from are different. I can taste every insecurity, fear, and need. It’s like that for everyone. I’m not a parasite, Slade, what I do can be _good_ too.”

Slade sat up, pulling away his eyepatch to stare down Dick with a naked face. “Tonight, was an exception. My kills are close, they are personal. I study them, hunt them, and then confront them. You will do so too. You will seduce, and you will kill if the job demands it. We are professionals, and you will behave as one or I will leave you starving in a bunker so deep underground, you’ll think you’re back in hell. Do you understand?”  

Dick stood by the bed, half dressed and frozen. His eyebrows were furrowed and his mouth slightly agape. Slade sighed, felt for that cord and gave it a light pull. His scar glowed faintly.

“Lay down.”

Dick hesitated but then glanced at the empty space beside Slade longingly. Slade had given him his own room back at the house, but Dick still drifted to his side at every opportunity. He was predictable.

Finally, as Slade knew he would, Dick caved, stripping out of his uniform and sliding beneath the sheets. He immediately curled up against Slade, and Slade let him. Dick wasn’t the only one with an inkling for insecurities, fears, and needs.

“What did you taste when you fed from me, Dick,” Slade asked, nearly casually as they settled into their sleep positions. Dick pressed against him tighter, rested his head against Slade’s chest. The question was vague, open ended. Dick could interpret it to mean general flavor, as he would any other meal, or even I’m regards to their particularly remarkable connection. 

But Dick understood the question. He understood, and he replied, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write evil Dick. I did. But down to his core, the boy's good. So here you have Slade/Dick, same dynamic, just one's a demon (and not the one you'd think.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Tim investigate, Slade worries that he may be losing control.

“So, just to confirm that I’ve got all the details, you saw Deathstroke and Deathstroke was with an unfamiliar mask, and that unfamiliar mask promptly took off his mask to rub his face on your arm. Then you took off your helmet, exposed all of our positions, and put your tongue in his mouth. That’s the gist of it, yeah?” Tim blinked innocently at Jason, little notebook in hand as if he were a detective, taking a statement, instead of the annoying little asshole who found Jason dazed and confused on a rooftop. By the time Tim helped him to the closest safe house Jason had sobered up enough to debrief, although looking back he decided that he should have taken the entire fiasco to his grave.

“Your order is off at the end there, but yeah, smartass, that’s about the gist,” Jason snapped, arms crossed. He thrown his helmet against a wall as soon as they’d entered, so he was left in his domino, still a smidgen askew from his encounter with Deathstroke’s new pet.

“Any identifying features? Did you at least snag an alias?” Tim asked. Jason ran his fingers through his hair, wracking his brain for any details about the stranger.

“He— He was wearing a bird emblem. On his costume. He called Deathstroke by his first name... he had these eyes. They were so blue, and they made it hard to focus—”

“Okay, you’re losing me,” Tim interrupted with a grimace. “I get it, he had pretty eyes.”

Jason scowled. “No, Tim, they were entirely blue. No pupil, no whites, and when he looked at me I literally couldn’t focus. It was some occult-style bullshit. And his neck, there was a tattoo like a collar around his neck, and his—” a wisp of a memory struck Jason, from near the end of the encounter, “Dick!”

Tim recoiled, “Jesus, Jason, he—?”

“No, fuck, no, his name! His name was Dick,” Jason hissed. “That’s What Slade called him when they left.”

Tim frowned, and lowered his obnoxious little notebook. “That’s not a codename, it sounds like a nickname. And if Slade is calling him by his name, without bothering to hide a personal detail, he doesn’t think he has anything to hide. I don’t like this, we need to tell B.”

Jason lurched forward, fingers twitching as he fought the urge to grab Tim by his collar. “Do _not_ tell Bruce! I don’t need him knowing I fucked this up, we’ll do our own reconnaissance.”

Tim opened his mouth, as if to argue, but then closed it. He shook his head, and Jason prepared for a fight, but then Tim said, “If this really is a monster occult thing, then we can call Zatanna and go from there.”

“Succubus,” Zatanna said, dabbing pigment under her eye in the light bulb studded mirror. They were backstage at her show venue in the Waldorf Towers, having been invited by Zatanna after their call. She couldn’t spare the time to come to Gotham, but it wasn’t as if Jason or Tim lacked accessible transportation to meet her in New York. “Or incubus,” she added, standing to go sift through her hanging costume ensembles. “I don’t know how they identify themselves as of late, hellions are really more John’s forte.”

“Succubus?” Jason asked, pointedly glancing away. Zatanna was in a robe, but it was thin and small, and he was gentleman. Tim, at age 17, had no such reservations.

“John?” Tim asked, only glancing down at Zatanna’s legs once, in a show of remarkable self-control.

“Constantine. He’s a con man with a penchant for trouble, stay away from him,” Zatanna supplemented. She picked out a costume, glanced at the boys, and murmured, “em sserD.” There was a flash of light, and when the light faded Zatanna stood in her full ensemble.

She walked by the two of them to fetch her hat. “I would recommend you both seek out Bruce’s help before you approach Constantine. Bruce at his worst has better intentions than Constantine at his best. Besides, if you have a sex demon problem in Gotham, Bruce is going to find out sooner rather than later. How did you say you encountered the demon, again?” She paused, glancing back at them, lips curved down.

“Ran into it feeding in Robinson Park,” Tim said, while Jason blurted, “Found it in the Narrows, preying on Johns.” They glanced at each other with twin glares of betrayal.

Zatanna sighed. “thurt eht em lleT,” she cast. Jason stiffened.

“Deathstroke the Terminator was with it, on a roof downtown. It fed on me when I tried to interrupt whatever Deathstroke was doing. When Deathstroke left, so did the demon.” After he was finished, Jason let out a long, colorful stream of curses, but Zatanna didn’t seem to mind.

“That sounds like it’s going to get messy. I’ve never known Deathstroke to run in my circles, but I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows anything. In the meantime, you two need to march home and tell Bruce. They may have left Gotham, but demons are volatile creatures that don’t need to be left loose. If not Bruce, then promise to at least tell Diana.”

A PA poked her head back stage and signaled for Zatanna, who waved her away.

“I’ve got to go. You two tell Bruce and stay safe. Those creatures will suck you dry and leave your body a rotting husk. It seems bound to Deathstroke for now, but who knows how long that will last.” Zatanna tipped her hat and mumbled another spell before disappearing. From the sound of the cheering crowd filtering in, there was no doubt she’d absconded to the stage.

“Ominous,” Tim offered. Jason shot him a glare.

“We can’t tell Bruce,” Jason ground out.

“Diana?” Tim offered. “Diana’s always helpful.”

Jason shook his head. “We’re cutting out the middle man. We’re going to find John Constantine.”

* * *

 

Slade stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, prodding the scar on his chest. It was fading. Slade wasn’t sure what he’d expected, it was rare that a wound was deep enough to mark his skin, least of all a cut from a knife, but he’d hoped that this spell would have been a bit more potent. His hold over the demon wasn’t ideal as was.

Every time he let Dick feed, Slade himself would get drunk from the experience. But Dick would run rampant without Slade’s tight leash; on the few contracts they’d embarked on together, each time Dick had strained and fought to take more than what the task necessitated. And Dick _played_ with his food, insisting on cooing at them and prolonging contact.

Dick poked his head into the bathroom, appearing in the mirror beside Slade’s own reflection. Dick opened his mouth to speak, but Slade cut him off.

“Let me guess, you’re bored?” Slade murmured, glaring at Dick through the mirror. Dick smirked and leaned against the door frame.

“No. I just miss your company. You’ve been in here for so long, I feared you’d been lost,” Dick murmured leisurely. Slade noticed that the emblem carved into Dick’s chest appeared every bit as faded as Slade’s own. Slade closed his eye and tamped down his irritation. When he opened his eye again, Dick was right behind him. Dick met Slade’s gaze in the mirror before sliding his arms around Slade’s naked waist.

“I’ve never been bound to a human like you before,” Dick murmured, standing on his tip-toes to prop his chin on Slade’s shoulder, “but I’m beginning to believe you’re not very good at being human.”

“I have a high protein diet,” Slade muttered. Dick shook his head.

“You’re faster and stronger than other humans I’ve encountered,” Dick shot back. “And you taste different. Why do you taste different?”

There. The cord between them quivered. It couldn’t do that before, not unless Slade initiated. Lately, Dick was gaining more control.

Slade grunted and shouldered Dick off himself, only to turn around and face Dick, allowing Dick to crowd him against the bathroom counter. Delighted, Dick slung his arms around Slade’s neck. Slade tugged at the cord, let Dick’s allure wash over him, felt the haze descend even as he felt the sharp contrast of Dick’s anticipation.

“Do you always look like this?” Slade asked, even as Dick dipped his head to kiss the warped skin of Slade’s scar. “You’re not overtly demonic.”  Dick glanced up, his usually opaque blue eyes appearing to shift and swirl, like a marble.

“No. I picked this form specifically for my summoners. You like them young, Slade,” Dick murmured blithely. A breeze ruffled Slade’s hair and Slade would have rolled his eye, if he thought he could look away from Dick.  

Slade bit his own tongue, breaking through the flesh, to ground himself. “What do you want from this partnership?” Slade asked, pushing forward. Dick huffed.

“I’m collared, Slade, my wants don’t take precedence. At best I hope for your redemption, at worst your death so that I can do as I wish. If you’re taking suggestions, I would like free reign over my powers again, at the very least. I miss the wind.” Another breeze, to punctuate Dick’s point, to distract from Dick’s answer to Slade’s question.

“You’re a demon, what does redemption look like to you?” Slade asked. His hands were sore; he didn’t even notice he’d been gripping the edge of countertop so tightly that his knuckles were ashen.

“I’m a hedonist first,” Dick murmured, lips trailing up to Slade’s neck. “Pleasure, with the least amount of pain. You take pleasure from pain, or at least the anticipation of pain. It’s why you hunt. All of the self-imposed rules and professionalism exist to keep the game challenging,” Dick paused and pulled away, “and because, despite yourself, I do genuinely believe you’re honorable. At least you want to be honorable.”

Slade shifted, and Dick bit Slade’s shoulder punitively. Slade was sure Dick must have broken skin, but he couldn’t quite tell; his skin grew numb where Dick touched.

“I thought you said you couldn’t taste any wants or desires from me,” Slade shot back. Dick raised his head again, lips tinted red. So, he had broken skin.

“It’s what you wanted me to say,” Dick offered. “You’re awfully sturdy, to still be asking questions.”

“You’re awfully talkative to be feeding,” Slade shot back. Dicked laughed.

“So I’ve been told,” Dick murmured. “I like to talk. I like to take my time and enjoy meals. I like to make meals enjoyable for my partners too,” he added, rolling his hips against Slade’s. The physicality of it cut through the haze, if only long enough for Slade to regain a semblance of focus.

“And what happens if you’re not able to feed?” Slade asked, voice lower and huskier than he’d prefer. Dick cocked his eyebrows.

“I’ve told you. I would languish.”

“Sounds like a good look for you,” Slade ground out, cutting the cord with the strength it took him to lift the front of a car. “Let’s see it then.”

Dick’s eyes widened, and he stumbled back from Slade. “You… you wouldn’t,” he hissed.

“Save your strength, kid,” Slade said, shouldering past him on his way to the exit. “You’ll need it.”

 

(Check out my [Tumblr](https://overratedantihero.tumblr.com/) and talk trash headcanons with me!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having 1000% too much fun with this, someone please stop me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick's hungry.

 The mark on Slade’s chest was nearly gone. It didn’t matter.

Dick lay nearly prone on Slade’s bed, stretched out, eyes half lidded. From what Slade could see, Dick’s eyes were dull. Deep, heavy bags hung underneath. He hadn’t moved in two days but to occasionally shift, to occasionally whine. The urge to reach for him, to envelop him and let him feed, was nearly overwhelming. Slade tamped down the urge, just as easily as he shoved away hunger during difficult, days long contracts.  

It had only been a month.

A single month since Slade told Dick that he could starve. And starve Dick did. At first Dick had tried to put up a front, pretend as if Slade’s threat was empty. But he’d learned. Even through their weakening link, Slade could _feel_ that Dick had learned.

Two weeks in, Dick began begging. Mildly, at first. Gentle kisses and presses against Slade. And then, steadily, more desperate.

“Do you hate me?” Slade had asked, at the three-week mark. When Dick had begun to resign to his fate, spending long days splayed out on the bed, without the energy to quip or bother or tug at Slade. Occasionally, during this period, Slade felt Dick tug at their connection, but the action was half hearted and weak.

“No,” Dick said. “I don’t hate you.” Slade couldn’t afford to believe him. He kept starving Dick.

And now, here he was, a demon and incubus, reduced as he was. There were no more attempts to regain control over their connection, no more begging. Dick just laid on the bed, limp as a death. Slade nearly missed Dick’s spunk, but then again, Slade’s headache had cleared.

“I have a job,” Slade said to him, on the 32nd day of Dick’s starvation. Dick blinked. “I trust you will stay here, behave?” Slade asked, redundantly. For the sheer purpose of seeing Dick’s shoulders sag.

“Yes,” Dick whispered.

“Good boy,” Slade murmured. He pecked Dick on Dick’s sweat slick forehead. The touch did nothing to ease Dick’s hunger pangs, and then Slade was gone anyway. Dick waited an hour, eyes trained on the door. When there was nothing, Dick gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position. He needed to feed. Slade’s control over his abilities was weak. All Dick needed was to leave the bed.

The distance between the bed and the floor was a yawning chasm. Dick nearly sobbed. Nevertheless, he gritted his teeth and moved.

* * *

 

“John Constantine is harder to find than he appeared,” Tim muttered, staring at the blueish glare of his computer screen. “I can’t find him. No hair nor mention. Jason, we may have to work on a Plan B.”

Jason gritted his teeth from where he sat on the couch beside Tim. His bones ached.

“This is Plan B,” Jason said, finally. “Zee was Plan A. We’re pushing Plan C.”

“Plan C is call Diana,” Tim offered, leaning back from the screen. Jason glared.

“Diana is at least Plan E. Plan C is you try harder. Try harder, Tim,” Jason ground out. His tone was only partially contrived. He’d been having phantom pains for several days now, he didn’t want to scrutinize why. Tim frowned but began typing again.

“Whatever,” Tim muttered. “Pull your weight, go on patrol. B’s going to get suspicious if we miss too many days anyway.”

Jason grunted, but picked himself up and began suiting up, beginning with his jacket and helmet. Before sliding on his helmet, he muttered, “Call me, if you find him. Before engaging. I need to see him.”

Tim quirked his eyebrows. “Sure, Jay. Don’t fall off a roof.”

“Whatever,” Jason muttered. “Fuck off.”

And then Jason was gone, through the window. Tim glanced after him for only a moment before returning to his computer.

Gotham was quiet, and Jason cursed his circumstances. At least if there was more activity, more reason for him being out, he could distract himself. As it were, his jaw throbbed from how tightly he ground his teeth. With every stop, whether it be a petty robbery or a larger infraction, Jason paused for any evidence or inkling that Slade or his new toy passed by. The chances were slim, but Jason was growing desperate. It had been a bit over a month since his encounter. Since he’d tangled with an actual demon. And he wanted to find the demon again. For what purpose, Jason wasn’t sure yet, but he could figure that out after the fact. For now, all that mattered was finding him before B.

And despite the longshot, Jason convinced himself to visit that gargoyle. The one where he’d first seen Dick the Demon. He’d been perched on the statue, one Jason’s favorite in the city. It would be a fool’s errand to return to the scene, but Jason nevertheless incorporated the gargoyle into his route, if only to soothe his own urge.

Jason, astoundingly and perhaps for the first time, found his faith rewarded. There, on the gargoyle, slumped a figure. The figure was clad in black and red, and it was not perched as Dick had been, it was collapsed it on itself next to the base of the statuary. Nevertheless, Jason crept forward.

The figure stirred, and Jason recoiled as blue eyes, faintly aglow in the depth of the Gotham night, met his.

“Please,” Dick rasped, unmoving but for his pale lips. Even from this distance, Jason could see they were tinted a sickly purple. “Just. Please?”

Jason did not move for several seconds. Dick’s head sagged, mouth barely parted, as if he were going to speak again. He didn’t.

“What happened?” Jason asked, against his better judgment, creeping closer. Dick’s eyes fluttered closed. When he didn’t receive an answer, Jason pressed again, “Dick. Speak to me. What happened? Where’s Slade?”

Dick blinked but did not move. “Contract. Without me.”

Jason was close enough to see that Dick was trembling. He crouched alongside him, pushed aside his bangs, sticky with sweat. “Why?” Jason asked. Dick’s eyes flicked towards him and this time, Dick didn’t blink.

“Control,” Dick whispered. Once again, Jason felt that tug, felt the urge to reach out and touch Dick’s face. It was faint, but it was there. And the creature, the demon, was in obvious pain. He tugged off a glove, removed his helmet.

“What are you?” Jason asked, sliding a naked hand to cup Dick’s cheek. Dick’s breath hitched, and his lips moved in barely formed words. Jason leaned closer, to hear, and Dick shot forward, quicker than a snake, to press his lips against Jason’s.

Unlike previously, Dick’s lips were dry, chapped. His skin felt cool and clammy against Jason’s, his desperation swallowing any inkling of enthusiasm. Unlike previously, Jason felt the moment that Dick slid into his veins, slick and heavy. Jason tried to pull away, but Dick was moving, laboring, to climb on top of Jason. To press him down into the concrete roof.

With time, Dick’s grip grew in strength. While Jason didn't attempt much of a fight, he felt the weighted press of Dick that meant he may not win any fight he attempted anyway. Then Dick straddled his hips, and Jason forgot his urge to fight at all. Dick sighed into his mouth.

“Thank you,” Dick whispered before nipping and sucking a bruise into Jason’s neck. Jason arched his throat, eyes glazed. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. You wanted answers, yes?” Dick asked, trailing down to bite Jason’s collarbone.

“Yeah,” Jason breathed, neck arched painfully upwards, in offering to Dick. “Yeah, but ‘s okay. You’re sick?” Jason’s voice trembled at the question. He didn’t want Dick to be sick. Who would be so cruel as to let Dick get sick? Jason would find them, kill them, gut them. For the first time in years, Jason felt the green edges of the Pit push at the edges of his rationality. 

Dick hummed. “Yes, but I feel better. You made me feel better. How do you feel?”

Jason’s brows furrowed. “Fine, I guess.” Jason wasn't sure if he felt anything, he had to focus to even consider the question. He felt numb, he felt infuriated by Dick's state. He felt possessive.

Dick’s bare hands were sliding up Jason’s bare ribs. Jason didn’t even realize his Kevlar and shirt had been pushed aside. Dick’s long fingers warmed up against Jason’s skin, the sensation made Jason shiver. “What are you?” Jason whined.

“A friend,” Dick insisted against Jason’s skin, rolling his hips against Jason. Jason let out a pitchy groan. “I’m a friend. What do you know of Slade Wilson?”

Any will to fight, arch, or beg underneath Dick began to seep from Jason’s bones. Jason grew tired, sleepy. Holding his eyes open was becoming harder and harder, even though Dick kept kissing him and even though Dick kept touching him.

“Mercenary,” Jason sighed. “Slade’s a mercenary. For hire. Smart. An asshole. Metahuman. B… B hates him,” Jason whispered. His eyelids fell closed. “Dangerous. Slade’s dangerous, don’t get too close to him.” Jason was slurring. Distantly, he recognized he was slurring. How unprofessional. “Please, stay away,” Jason pleaded, abandoning his concerns in place of fretting over Dick’s wellbeing. What greater concern was there anyway?

Dick pulled away. “Sh. I trust you. I’ll stay away from Slade. He’s a bad man, Jason. You know that, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jason sighed.

“You’d help protect me from him?” Dick pushed, gripping Jason’s chin in his hand. Jason’s eyes fluttered open, met Dick’s earnest gaze. At least Jason thought Dick seemed earnest, hard to tell without a pupil or whites.

“Yeah, course,” Jason muttered. “’S what I do. Protect and serve. Anything for the mission. Anything for you." 

Dick frowned. Jason frowned too. Dick shouldn’t be frowning, what a terrible thing. Jason mustered the last of his will to sit up, bracing his torso on his forearms. He pressed away from the concrete, to draw closer to Dick. Dick’s skin emanated warmth, unlike before. Jason buried his face in Dick’s neck, soaking in the warmth. Jason felt so cold.

“Mission?” Dick asked. “Jason, who are you?”

“Red Hood,” Jason murmured. He should be embarrassed, he was literally drooling over Dick. Him, the Red Hood, criminal kingpin. Son of the Bat. Slobbering over a pretty boy. Dick’s fingers carding through is hair quelled any further concerns. “Jason Todd. Bruce Wayne’s son. Batman’s sidekick. Former, I guess. He replaced me when I died.”

“Ah,” Dick murmured. “That explains it. You died?”

“Kinda,” Jason slurred. “Got better. Will you marry me?”

Dick laughed softly. The sound was beautiful, Jason wanted to drink it. Jason couldn’t keep his eyes open at all anymore. He let his weight fall onto Dick. Dick gently lowered him onto his back.

“I don’t know who those people are, Jason Todd. But do Bruce Wayne or Batman know Slade? Could they fight Slade?”

Dick’s voice was so distant. Jason grappled with the meaning of Dick’s words before he was able to understand. And then it took further concentration to string together a sentence.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Jason rasped. “B knows. B’ll... B’ll do it. I’ll make him." Jason felt fuzzy. Somewhere, deep within, he began to panic. This wasn't right. He couldn't move. He couldn't focus. This wasn't right. "Dick. Dick, Dick, Dick,” Jason muttered, the syllables feeling nice on his tongue, the meaning lost before long.

“Sh, Jason, don’t talk. Just go to sleep. Okay? Sleep,” Dick urged. Jason’s jaw went slack. Jason wanted to say something else, but he wasn’t sure what. And then Dick let out a soft noise, like a sigh. Jason painfully cracked his eye open in time to see Dick slump forward, heavy on top of him. From this angle, Jason could just barely see a dart sticking from Dick’s shoulder. A silhouette formed behind Dick’s slouched form.

“You’re dumb and this was a bad idea,” Tim snapped, voice filtering slowly. Jason blinked and tried to say, ‘fuck off,’ but he sunk into unconsciousness instead.


	5. Chapter 5

Jason came to in Tim’s living room. He blinked, eyes sticky and bleary, and then flinched into the cushions of Tim’s overstuffed couch.

“Ah. I think the big one’s waking up then,” a distinctly British voice announced. Jason groaned and threw a pillow in the direction of the voice. “No need to be smarmy at this hour,” the yet to be identified man muttered.

Jason blinked and suddenly Tim was there, directly in front of Jason’s face.

“How do you feel?” Tim asked, somehow sounding entirely unconcerned. Jason felt like he’d knocked back a fifth, but he couldn’t recall drinking the night before. He couldn’t recall much from the night before at all.

“Like a hangover,” Jason muttered, pushing himself up even though his head swam. Tim backed up and Jason took in the room. Standing a ways away was a blond man, about an inch or two shorter than Jason, in a ratty trench coat. An unlit cigarette was tucked between his lips, and his fingers twitched from where they rested at his sides. Tim probably wouldn’t let him smoke; Jason recognized the itch.

Of greater interest was the center of the living space. Tim’s coffee table was shoved aside to make room for a proportionately massive pentacle, drawn on the hardwood floors in what appeared to paint. In the middle of the circle, Dick sat, sporting opaque sunglasses, a gag, and an honest to god straightjacket.

“Tim, what the _fuck_ ,” Jason sputtered, lurching unsteadily to his feet. “What’ve you got him like that for? That’s so fucked, Tim, why do you even _own_ a straightjacket.”

Tim gave Jason a funny look. “Jay, he tried to eat you. Last night, I found him straddling you and telling you to go to sleep, like you were a dog he was putting down. Don’t you remember?”

Dick spluttered something, but it was impossible to make out around the gag. The trench-coated man snorted.

“’S unlikely he remembers much, love. This one took more than his fair share when he had your boy last night. Good thing you’re a sturdy batch, would hate to see what would’ve happened to a lesser man.”

Dick, again, muttered something from around the cloth shoved in his mouth. Jason realized it was likely a bunched-up tie.

“None of that now, love,” the man muttered, crouching down in front of Dick from the edge of the circle. “Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Stop,” Jason said, furrowing his brow. “You’re goading him, stop it.” Jason ran his fingers through his own hair, tugging to ground to himself as memories of the night’s events washed over him in waves. Tim hadn’t looked away from him since he’d woken up.

“Jason, you’re doing it again. Why are you defending him?” Tim pressed, stepping closer to Jason. “If I hadn’t found Constantine, if we hadn’t subdued the demon—Jason, he could have killed you. Like honest to god killed you, for good this time.”

Jason shook his head. “No. Not Dick. He wouldn’t.”

“Don’t bother arguing with him,” Constantine shot at Tim. “He’s drunk off the demon’s touch. It’s a lingering sort of spell. Makes a bloke a little pissed, keeps ‘im from harming the demon.”

“Tim, who the hell is this?” Jason asked, pulling his hand from his hair to gesture to Constantine. “I thought we were on Plan B?”

“This is Plan B,” Tim shot back. “Jason, this is John Constantine. He helped me make the dart that took down the demon, and he trapped it in this circle. I did what you asked, I haven’t told anyone else, but I’m starting to think I should. You’re not acting right.”

Wind whipped the curtains asunder and Constantine cursed.

“Is the window open?” Tim asked, turning from Jason to search for a source.

“No, it’s him,” Constantine said, jutting his thumb at Dick. “’S not a good sign. Whatever cap Deathstroke had on him is loose. Has been, but now that he’s fed, he’s got energy.”

“Cap?” Tim asked. “What do you mean cap?”

“How did you know he was with Deathstroke?” Jason demanded. “Tim, did you tell him?” Jason stormed past Tim to grab Constantine by the front of his button-up.

“Jesus, Jason, stop!” Tim said, striding over the windows to check the locks and adjust the curtains. The windows were shut tight, but a phantom breeze tossed Tim’s hair about. “Yeah, I mentioned he was with Deathstroke, will you let up?”

Jason glared at Constantine and Constantine raised his palms up.

“Easy now,” Constantine said. “I have some information you may be interested in regarding our mutual friend over there. But first you have to let go. Yeah?”

Jason glanced over to Dick, who’d grown quiet from behind the gag. The straight jacket was taught around his front, and it appeared that… that the back was rippling. As if something were pushing and straining against the restraints. Jason blinked and returned his attention to Constantine. Slowly, he untangled his fingers from Constantine’s shirt, and then he let his arm drop to his side.

“There we go, that’s good,” Constantine murmured, voice placating. He brushed himself off and straightened his shirt before gesturing to Dick. “That over there? He’s a lilitu. A wind and sex demon. Your acquaintance the Terminator did me a favor, so I paid him by summoning that fit bloke over there. I also bound him to Deathstroke, but it looks like his mark healed over. Guessed that it would, but I didn’t think it would be my problem by then.”

Constantine passed an almost pitying glance towards Dick. “Didn’t think he’d starve the poor creature either. I take it Deathstroke has some control issues?”  

Jason wanted to punch him. He raised his arm but then just fisted his hair again. “Yeah. Yeah, Slade has some control issues. You tied Dick to a maniac, you absolute asshole.”

“Well. Dick’s a demon,” Tim offered. “And Slade’s a monster. I could see how a passerby wouldn’t see the issue.”

A terrible shredding sound interrupted whatever quip Jason had, and all three heads turned to Dick. Two massive wings stretched behind Dick’s back and Dick shook his arms free of the tattered remains of the straightjacket before pulling the soaked tie from his mouth.

“Oh, shite,” Constantine muttered, just as Dick bellowed, “Constantine!”

Tim ran across the room and tackled Jason to the floor by swiping Jason’s legs before throwing himself against Jason’s torso. Jason hit the ground with a thud and an undignified shout.

“Tim, I’m going to kill you dead,” Jason spat. Tim shushed him and pulled a pair of black sunglasses from his pocket. He shoved them on Jason’s face.

“This is for your own good, do not look into his eyes,” Tim hissed, right before Jason shoved him off. Jason sat up, and although his vision was blurry what with the sunglasses in the mildly lit room, he could still see the moment Dick ripped off his own shades and spat profanities at Constantine.

Constantine’s coat whipped about him in a frenzy and he had his palms out in submission again. Jason had an inkling he was used to the gesture.

“Easy, there, mate. I didn’t know he was going to do that to you,” Constantine cooed. It did nothing to calm the windstorm that was building in the apartment. Tim cursed as an empty mug fell from its perch on his sidelined coffee table and shattered on the floor.

“No, but it wouldn’t have changed anything, would it?” Dick growled. “I’d heard of you, John Constantine, but I didn’t believe the rumors until I saw you for myself. You’re a coward and a conman. You carved into me as if you were branding cattle, even though you full well knew it wouldn’t last!”

Constantine shrugged. “Cattle actually get a fire iron, but I hear your point.” The wind shoved Constantine a few steps and he said, “Alright, alright. Simmer down. I’d thought you’d have charmed him a bit more by now. Looks like all you snagged was that one over there, and I assure you that was not my intention. Zee’s already right angry with me, I wouldn’t stoke that on purpose.”

All at once, the wind ceased. Dick crossed his arms. “Reference fire again. I dare you. Do it.”

Constantine’s mouth closed with a _clack_ of his teeth. They stood in tense silence for a spell while Tim and Jason watched.

“So, I take it you wouldn’t just. Elect to go back to hell then?” Tim offered. Dick’s gaze snapped so harshly towards Tim that Jason thought he’d broken his neck for a moment. The wind began to stir again, but Jason stepped forward, holding an arm out in front of Tim’s chest.

“Dick. Don’t do that, he didn’t mean it,” Jason murmured. Tim squawked from behind him, but Jason had nearly a foot on him and had no trouble ignoring Tim’s indignation enough to step forward. “No one’s sending you back to hell, okay?”

Jason still couldn’t see too keenly through the black lenses, but he did see Dick’s wings tuck up close to his back.

“Jason,” Dick murmured, gentler in tone than he’d been. “You couldn’t if you tried. I’m bound to earth for as long as I’m bound to Slade.” He gestured to the tattooed collar around his neck. “I just don’t appreciate the irreverence. Or being shot in the back with shrapnel dipped in holy water.” Dick turned his sharp gaze to Tim again.

Tim winced. “A dart. Not shrapnel. And you were eating Jason, so. There’s that. I don’t see how I’m to blame here.”

Dick glanced up at the ceiling. “I wasn’t going to suck him dry, I can’t even do that from just touch.”

“Tim, back off,” Jason hissed. “You didn’t _see_ him before. He looked nearly dead.”

“There you go again,” Tim muttered. “Defending him. This isn’t a good look, Jay.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Jason turned on Tim, shoving him. Tim stumbled back and then planted his feet and jutted his chin out.

“No! I’m not the one defending a literal creature from hell. One that, not five hours ago, was snacking on you like you were a Bat Burger combo!” Tim shouted. Wind picked up again, knocking over a lamp.

“Jesus Christ, Dick, not right now!” Jason snapped, ripping off the sunglasses so that he could glare at Dick. Dick met his gaze with those unearthly, glowing eyes. Jason felt the pull, but far be it from him to give Tim the satisfaction of seeing him crumble again.

“Oh,” Dick deadpanned. “That’s not me.”

Tim blinked and then threw his hands up and retorted, “Who else would it be?”

Dick raised his eyebrows while the ring around his throat glowed blue.

Constantine cleared his throat. “I think. What Dick is trying to say, in the muddiest fashion possible, that Deathstroke has noticed his pet is missing.”

“He’s trying to call me back,” Dick offered. “But he can’t. Because you trapped me here.” Dick gestured to the circle.

“He can do that? He can just… summon you again? And the first thing you did was come to Jason? What was the point?” Tim growled, tugging at his hair and glancing about the room. Jason was too. Pinpointing possible points of entry. Identifying potential makeshift weapons. Plotting out whatever lie they’d have to spin to Bruce when the safehouse got destroyed.

Dick huffed. “The point was to eat enough that I could regroup. I don’t hate Slade, I just can’t trust him. So, if I couldn’t figure out how to sever our connection, I was going to subdue him, at least until I could make him _understand_. He’s just restless and hungry, like me. He’s not _bad_ , bad. I like him, and he needs me.”

“Oh my god, he calls himself _Deathstroke the Terminator_ ,” Tim shouted, eyes rolling in the back of his head. “You are the most naïve demon I have ever met.”

“He’s the only demon you’ve ever met,” Jason said over his shoulder, even as he began pushing furniture against the windows. “Dick, you know better. You _told_ me he was bad.”

“I told you what I knew you’d respond to,” Dick muttered. “And I was hungry. I can’t be held accountable for what I say when I’m hungry.” He’d sat down in his circle, looking almost childish but for the eerie eyes, foreboding collar, and massive, inky wings.

“You shouldn’t just say shit you don’t mean,” Tim said, crossing his arms. “Hungry or not, you’re accountable for your actions.”

Dick locked eyes with Tim and Tim’s shoulders relaxed. Jason was too busy barricading the door to lend a hand, so he barked at Constantine, “Do something, you know what he’s doing.”

Constantine shrugged and lit his cigarette, now the apartment’s proprietor was distracted. “The lad could use the experience. Teach him a thing or two.”

When Dick blinked, Tim bristled again. Dick wasted no time in letting his expression fall into blasé disinterest even as he murmured, “Jason, he’s still mad that you didn’t choose him. I don’t know what that means. I’m sure you do.”

Tim’s jaw fell open, but nothing came out.

Jason paused, hands still braced against the dining table he’d been shoving. “Really, Tim? Is this about Robin? He was an angry kid, he needed direction. His dad had presumably just died, and I was trying to be the responsible one for once.”

“What the fuck was that!” Tim shouted, gesturing at Dick. “That’s—That’s not even fair!”

Constantine blew a puff a smoke and rasped, “He’s a sex demon. He smells insecurity like perfume in an elevator. Don’t make eye contact. Or touch him. It only gets worse.”

Dick murmured to Tim, “If it’s any consolation, he does love you. And he’s scared of disappointing you near constantly.”

“Dick. Shut it,” Jason growled, straightening his shirt after having shoved every piece of furniture in front of every possible entry point.

“Why isn’t he doing this to you?” Tim asked Constantine, crossing his arms. Constantine glanced over at Dick, met Dick’s eyes. Dick frowned and crinkled his nose.

“Oh. That’s just sad, I don’t want to get into that,” Dick said. Constantine barked out a laugh and winked at Tim, who just twisted his mouth down in a scowl.

The ceiling suddenly exploded in a shower of glass. Constantine cursed and slid into the circle, behind Dick. Tim and Jason hit the floor.

“You have a fucking skylight?!” Jason shouted above his impending tinnitus. “It’s fucking Gotham! Why, for fuck’s sake, would you have a skylight!”

“It’s shatterproof glass!” Tim shouted back, scrambling to his feet even as Deathstroke, fully suited, dropped down. He landed on the hardwood with a thump and stood, letting the dust settle as his masked face trained his supposed gaze on Dick.

“You did not stay, you did not behave,” Slade said, simply. Nobody moved, but for Dick, who stood up and placed his hands on his hips.

“You tried to starve me,” Dick said. “I did what I needed to, to survive.”

Slade cocked his head. Silence stretched between them, and Jason considered the utility of just rushing Slade. But before he could, Slade rumbled, “It took effort to make it all the way here, didn’t it, little bird?”

Dick shifted his stance. “Yes.”

“Were you going to fight me?”

Dick cocked his head. In the background, Jason was inching closer to the circle. Tim was feeling around himself for something to weaponize, anything. His hand closed around a shard of glass.

“Yeah, I thought about it,” Dick said. “You gave me no choice. Surely you felt what you’d done to me?”

“I did,” Slade offered. “And so, I know what it took from you to make it here, to hunt in that state. You’re tougher than I thought.”

Tim launched himself from his crouch, glass raised. A gust of wind slammed against his torso so strongly that he fell back, hitting the floor with an, “ _Ooph_!”

“We’re talking, Tim,” Dick said, without looking away from Deathstroke. “You didn’t trust me, Slade. You tried to abandon me.”

Deathstroke crossed his arms. “I wouldn’t have left you, little bird. You knew I wouldn’t let you be when I found you missing. There was no need to make me chase you.”

“Yes, there was,” Dick spat back. “You needed this. You needed to see me fight back. I don’t like your games, Slade.”

Jason breathed, “Dick, what are you doing?”

“Stay out of it, boy,” Slade grunted at Jason. To Dick, he said, “Come back with me.”

Dick cocked an eyebrow. “No more spells?”

“No more than what’s already in place.”

Dick bit his lip. “And you won’t starve me again?”

“I stumbled, during the contract. Nearly cost me the kill. No, I won’t starve you again. If you can’t take my word, then trust my self-interest.”

Dick smirked and stuck his chin out. “Admit you missed me.”

“Dick!” Jason snapped.

Slade stepped forwarded, rubbed away the edges of the circle that contained Dick with his boot. As soon as he had, Dick rolled his shoulders, stretching his wings out, beyond the confines.

“I’ll admit that our connection outlasted the mark,” Slade murmured. “Why’s that Constantine? Surely you’d know.” Constantine paused from where he was trying to slip away and out of sight.

“I’ll presume you let him feed from you? Bad move, mate. I warned you, his venom is a sticky one,” Constantine said, shoulders hunched. Cutting him off probably didn’t help. It’s like food. You can try and starve yourself, but the hunger rears back up stronger than before.”

“Let him go,” Dick murmured, stepping closer to Slade. He wrapped his arms around Slade’s neck. “And I won’t even make you say it.”

“Are you going to throw fits like this on contracts?” Slade asked, letting Dick drag his mask off. Dick grinned.

“Yes.”

Slade pursed his lips. “You’re a pain in my ass.” Slade reached out and caught the dart before it hit Dick. Dick glanced over at Tim.

“Again?” he asked. Tim glared daggers but dropped his dart gun. Slade tossed the dart aside and placed his hand on Dick’s hip instead.

“I don’t like being manipulated, kid,” Slade warned Dick. Dick grinned.

“No, but you like a fight,” Dick offered. Dick caught the knife that Jason threw with a gust of wind, pushing it off course so that it embedded into Dick’s shoulder instead of its intended target. Dick reached back and yanked it free. The slit in his flesh healed without a touch of blood.

“I think the peanut gallery is getting restless,” Slade murmured. “We can justify this elsewhere. Are you coming?”

Dick cocked his head and then nodded. Dick dropped the knife and they absconded, with a grappling hook through the demolished skylight.

When they’d gone, Jason fell to his knees and shouted, “What the _fuck_.”

“What… what _was_ that?” Tim hissed, reaching a hand to brush his hair back.

“Ever seen a snake bite itself?” Constantine offered, lighting another cigarette. “Me neither. I imagine it looks something like that.”

“I think I’m in love with him,” Jason muttered, horrified.

“It’ll pass,” Constantine offered. “Have a drink, find someone pretty to shag, stay away from sex demons while your head clears.

“Dick… he seemed decent,” Tim said. “I don’t understand how he just… left.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t hold him captive,” Constantine said. “What’s important here, boys, is that we carry on and don’t tell anyone what happened here.”

“No… no, we’re a little obligated to tell B at this point,” Tim said, closing his eyes. “Deathstroke has a demon. An actual demon. We’ve got to tell him.”

“Or,” Jason said, quickly, “or we let him figure it out. He will, sooner or later. We don’t have to tell him.” Tim shot him a glare and Jason’s voice raised in pitch, “Look, he’s going to kill us if we do. We’re both culpable here, don’t fucking pretend you’re above me. Not in this.”

“Fine, fine,” Tim muttered, closing his eyes again. “I’ll keep quiet for now. But Jesus. I’ve never seen Slade just… fold like that.”

Jason grunted, slumping against the wall. “Rose’s told me stories. Specifically, about him and his ex-wife. Apparently, Slade gets weak in the knees for things he thinks stand a chance at killing him.”

“Ah,” Tim said. “Great.”

They were silent for a stretch. A piece of glass broke free from what was left of the skylight, clattered to the ground. Somewhere outside, an ambulance sped past followed by what sounded like a police escort.

Finally, after what felt like several minutes, Constantine cleared his throat and asked, “Anyone want a fag?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright. i did it. i got that out of my system. i hope y'all enjoyed it because this was terribly self indulgent.


End file.
